


Letters from Montfermeil

by besanii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Cloud Atlas, Angst, Epistolary, Frobisher!Grantaire, Letters, M/M, Multi, Sixsmith!Enjolras, brief mentions of Grantaire/Eponine, one sided Montparnasse/Grantaire, please reading warnings in author's notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besanii/pseuds/besanii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Enjolras,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>By the time you get this letter, I will have been long gone. You may ask why, but I’m sure you already know. Am on my way to fame and fortune. Don’t worry, I have a plan.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters from Montfermeil

**Author's Note:**

> Not quite a historical AU, sorry :( But it's set in the 1930s? A sort of Cloud Atlas AU, based heavily on Frobisher and Sixsmith's timeline in the 1930s. There's borrowed dialogue from the movie, mostly in the last couple of letters but in a few other places too, because they were too beautiful and I could not bear to rip them apart. 
> 
> Later mentions of suicide, suicide idealisation, so be warned. Allusions to violence, and copious amounts of the unreliable narrator.
> 
> Uh...happy Valentines Day?

_June 4, 1936_

_Enjolras,_

_By the time you get this letter, I will have been long gone. You may ask why, but I’m sure you already know. Am on my way to fame and fortune. Don’t worry, I have a plan._

_There’s an elderly gentleman who lives in a town just East of Paris by the name of Thenardier. You may not know him, Enjolras, because you are a musical dunce, but I assure you he is one of the greats. The only problem is he has not composed anything in a very long time. They say it is due to illness, or old age, one can never be too sure, but nevertheless it is a great loss to our world._

_I’m sure by now you’ve already worked out what my plan is. If you were with me, I’m certain you’ll say I’m doomed to failure. But fear not, my dear, I have it all worked out._

_You see, Enjolras, a composer of status such as Thenardier himself who can no longer lift a pen to compose for himself will undoubtedly require an amanuensis. And despite what that miserable hack Javert has to say, we both know I have enough talent to fill this position and more. I know you probably think it is highly improper of me to call upon the man so directly, but you have always been somewhat a prude. Said with the utmost affection, of course. You shake your head and groan, Enjolras, but you smile too, which is why I love you._

_Nevertheless, should I succeed in securing the position, I will have the means with which to regain what standing remains to my name. Let them scorn, beat down doors in their hounding for debts I have no means to pay. They will know their error in the end. Who knows, Father may finally be forced to acknowledge that the son he disinherited is none other than R. Grantaire, the greatest composer in his time. But I’m getting ahead of myself._

_Would ask for your blessing, Enjolras, but I already have your favourite waistcoat for luck. Thanks for that, by the way. I needed something of yours to keep me company._

_Yours,_

_R._

 

_—_

 

_July 8, 1936_

_Enjolras,_

_I imagine you’re killing yourself wondering how my scheme is progressing. Well, don’t stress that pretty blond head of yours. I am well. Perfectly, even._

_Been in Montfermeil nearly a month. It’s much smaller than I’d imagined, doesn’t even have a decent-sized tavern. But no matter, there are more important things than drink. I can hear your gasp of shock, Enjolras, and thank you for your continued faith. (Note the sarcasm.)_

_Passed a quaint little chapel on the way to the chateau — it sits on a hill a ways outside the town, about a two-hour walk. Borrowed a bicycle from a gentleman in the lavatory to get there. Don’t look at me like that, Enjolras. It was either that or dip into the contents of my purse, which you know as well as I have been dwindling. Where was I? Oh yes, the chapel. The vines creeping along the walls and eaves reminds me of the time we climbed the roof of St Clement’s just to see if we could. You complained of scrapes and rashes for weeks afterward, but I remember it fondly and know you do too. You deny it, but I know you. Never had the face for lying, although I’m not certain that is an entirely helpful trait to possess._

_But you’re dying to know about the man, I presume. He is not as stately or handsome as I had pictured — rather scrawny and crooked, if I’m being perfectly honest. His large, bulbous nose takes up more than half his admittedly small face, which has yellowed and slackened with what I presume to be his illness. His wife and two daughters are no better — they all loom at least a head above the man, their features set too hard to be considered handsome by any means, and mouths twisted in a state of perpetual distaste. Am told they have a son, too, but have seen neither hair nor hide of the boy since my arrival._

_All in all a little underwhelming, if I’m to be honest. But still, beggars cannot be choosers, and I’ll be damned if I ruin my prospects passing petty judgement on my benefactors. Yes, I say benefactors, Enjolras, because I am pleased to say I have passed my audition. By the skin of my teeth — but I’ll take it regardless._

_But my audition! Yes, my audition went as well as I could have hoped. I really was going in blind, you know. He did not take well to my performing his own work, calls it “useless pandering” and “unsightly grovelling”. Bit my tongue to that, cannot afford to offend in my situation, and offered a different piece. He seemed to like that one much better. I had naught but sincerity and dedication and talent to offer and it seems to have paid off. You see, Enjolras, even a sceptic has his moments of true belief._

_Thenardier is a strange fellow. Upon first glance, you would not have known him to be a great maestro, with his admittedly weasel-like appearance and small stature. His speech cannot be called refined, and he has a tendency to affect airs when he is in a mood. Madam Thenardier tells me it is his illness talking — he gets dreadfully testy after a fortnightly migraine that leaves him abed for the better part of a day. He apologises for his temper afterward, so I try to pay it no mind._

_Spending my days as amanuensis to the illustrious Thenardier digging through piles of old manuscripts. Most are half-complete — I assume these predate the onset of his illness, which has regrettably left him largely blind. Enough, at least, that he is unable to read the manuscripts on his own. My job is to play these half-finished pieces and record his attempts to salvage the music. Asks for my input, and sometimes even incorporates my suggestions. Not that I am boasting. No, an amanuensis must resign himself to taking no credit for authorship, no matter how much input he may have had._

_We do very little in terms of composition, but it is early days yet. Perhaps T. is still testing the waters of our relationship before he decides if he can trust me. Well, I’ll show him._

_Yours,_

_R._

_P.S. - Should Father or his merry band of solicitors come calling, tell them you have not seen me for some weeks. That, at least, holds a grain of truth._

 

_—_

 

_August 11, 1936_

_My dear Enjolras,_

_Bless you a thousand times over for the package. I received it yesterday afternoon and have already received lavish compliments on the new fountain pen on three separate occasions. I suspect T. looks upon it with envy, but never mind him. That is, at least, one less thing he has to lord over me._

_I must confess, Enjolras, that I had withheld vital information from my last letter. Do not be alarmed, it is happy news. Wonderful news, even. T. and I have presented our very first collaboration to one of his favourite conductors, one Georges Pontmercy. You’ll not have heard of him, of course, hiding away in your lab as you do, but he is the finest conductor this side of the ocean. He and T. are old friends, and he calls upon the chateau whenever he is in the neighbourhood. Sometimes he brings his son, Marius. He tells me we are of an age, but when I ventured to ask, the boy is only twenty one. Flattering that he should think me so young, so did not correct him._

_But I digress. The piece we presented is an old one that we — or rather I — salvaged during one of our sessions. Marvellous piece. Used to be dull and boring, not unlike the town of Montfermeil, an arrangement of an old Teutonic anthem, I believe. Our new arrangement borrows resonances from Wagner’s '_ Ring _, then quickly takes on a much more Stravinsky-esque tone, which is quite daring if I do say so myself. Called it ‘_ Eternal Recurrence’ _. Wish you could hear it. Not that you would understand its complexity and nuance, but it is the most accomplished tone poem that I know and that is enough for now._

_In any case, Pontmercy wants to sponsor a performance not three weeks from now, under his own baton! Says he would do it tomorrow if he could, but alas not even the most talented orchestra could learn such a piece in a night._

_Fascinating, the way our lives seem to turn around so quickly. One moment, a disinherited pauper, the next, gainfully employed by one of the greatest composers in France. Won’t be long until I can publish under my own name. I can feel it._

_In other news, you may recall my previous mention of two Miss Thenardiers. The younger, Miss Azelma, boards with friends of the family while she attends school in Paris. She is not home often, except on weekends — for which I am thankful, for she has a disposition like curdled milk. Dreadfully haughtish creature, even Courfeyrac wouldn’t want to know her and he makes a point to like everyone._

_The elder, Miss Eponine, and I have struck up a friendship of sorts. Do not be alarmed, Enjolras, we are merely friends. Briefly entertained the notion of taking up with her, but she is regrettably engaged to the heir of a baron, a Mont-something or other. I may be unscrupulous at the best of times, but even I know where to draw the line. Although I would not refuse if she were to change her mind in future. I can feel you judging me from your lab, Enjolras — I never said I was perfect._

_Nevertheless, Miss Eponine and I have taken to riding out in the afternoons when T. has retired to his rooms to rest until supper. He is often fatigued after our sessions, but that is to be expected. Were I his age, I would likely be the same. We are, after all, in the business of creating masterpieces and that is not to be taken lightly._

_What hardness and distaste initially clouding Miss E.’s features has been replaced by keen eyes and a sharper wit. Poor thing, I do believe she has been starved for company in this secluded chateau and I don’t blame her. Had I only her elderly parents for company and no inclination towards music, I too would not be pleased with my situation. Still, I hope to be a friend to her during my stay, however long that may be. Am hoping at least a year more, I do so enjoy her company. We laugh ourselves sick gallivanting about the grounds with Master Marius in tow — oh yes, he and Miss E. are fast friends, for years now. Sometimes catch her watching him with a peculiar expression on her face, so I pried._

_Turns out she has a bit of a Thing for him — her words, not mine. Asked if they had a dalliance, but was rebuked almost immediately. No, the feelings are all hers. He has his little bride-to-be in Paris and they are stupidly in love. Poor Miss E. I can’t say I sympathise — told her I’ve never loved anyone except myself and have no intentions of starting now. Even one as handsome as Master Marius or herself. I don’t think she believed me._

_Yours,_

_R._

_P.S. - I have enclosed a sum with this letter and will send more when my salary allows. It is what you loaned me previously, excluding the waistcoat, which I am keeping. It brings me good fortune._

_P.P.S. - Best news of all, I have begun a composition of my own._

 

_—_

 

_August 30, 1936_

_Enjolras,_

_I have reason to believe someone has been going through my things. Found my manuscripts in disarray upon returning from our afternoon jaunt. Nothing has been misplaced, thankfully, but there was a brief moment I believed the fountain pen you gifted me had been lost. I have taken to keeping it on my person, along with my manuscripts. If people ask, I tell them one never knows when inspiration will hit. They shake their heads, but question no further._

_As promised, Pontmercy Sr sponsored ‘_ Eternal Recurrence _’ at the theatre hall in Paris for a full six days. Six! I could scarcely believe it myself when we heard the news. We have the Germans to thank, which amuses me greatly. They are calling it a ‘frontal assault on the German Republic’, if you would believe it. Naturally the festival parliamentarians responded by adding extra performances. Three became four, and four became five, even the sixth sold out within another twenty-four hours. We are the talk of the town, and T. is quite invigorated by the attention._

_He has allowed me freer reign over our collaborations of late. Pscht, as if I had not already made the majority of them in the first place. No matter. Am quite reconciled to playing second fiddle in this arrangement, at least for the time being. Haven’t told anyone about my own work yet. Not until it’s presentable. It will be a masterpiece, I’m sure of it._

_Now, Enjolras, what I am about to tell you must be kept secret. Should not be committing this to paper lest the family discover it before it is sent, but I fear I cannot bear the burden of it much longer. It is to do with Miss E’s intended._

_He is nothing if not the Devil himself bound in human form. He has a lovely countenance, daresay enough to rival even yours, dearest Enjolras. We met at a dinner party held at the chateau this past Friday, in celebration of our success with ‘_ Eternal Recurrence _’. I didn’t know him at first, only that he reminded me of you, if your hair had been dark, from across the drawing room where he had been engrossed in conversation with Miss E. Here, I thought, was a handsome stranger worth my attention. Wanted to approach him, but could not manage to get away from Pontmercy Sr until the maid rang for supper._

_We were placed beside each other at the dinner table, which I’m now certain was not a coincidence. His hand brushed my knee as we were being seated, and when I glanced up he was regarding me with a singular focus that I found quite unsettling. He introduced himself as The Right Honourable Montparnasse, heir to Baron Montparnasse. I confess I did not make the connection at first, charmed as I was by his easy manner and fine features. It wasn’t until Miss E., sat at Montparnasse’s other side, placed a hand over his to capture his attention did the pieces finally slot into place._

_A stroke of irony that even Combeferre for all his meticulous planning could not have predicted. That I, having decided previously not to take up with Miss E. herself, am now tempted by the same lady’s intended? The world is cruel indeed._

_I have not shared a bed with another since Cambridge. I hated leaving you like that. Not the goodbye I had in mind. Perhaps one day, when you manage to come this way, I will show you all that I have achieved here in Montfermeil, in this house, under T.’s tutelage. I am a changed man, Enjolras. No longer the vagrant, disinherited scoundrel who leapt from your bedroom window. I do hope you’ll find it in yourself to forgive me._

 

_Yours faithfully,_

_R._

 

_—_

 

_October 25, 1936_

_My dear Enjolras,_

_Do hope you are not terribly upset after the revelations within my last letter. I assure you I have been well-behaved these two months past, although I cannot vouch for the rest of my company._

_You’d not be surprised to hear that a fast friendship has formed between myself and Montparnasse since last I wrote. Funny how inexplicably we are drawn to some and not to others. I am referring, of course, to Miss Haughty herself, who is back from school for the break and is strutting about like a peacock, all garishness and no grace. Don’t frown so, Enjolras, if you knew her you would feel the same. Her sister certainly agrees. Montparnasse, bless him, thinks her amusing and extends regular invitations for her to join our afternoon jaunts. She accepts on occasion, which surprises both myself and Miss E. greatly each time, but mostly she keeps to her room to compose letters to friends as her father and I do music._

_Work with T. has slowed since ‘_ Eternal Recurrence _’. Our sessions in the music room of late consist of little more than rehashing old manuscripts. We must have gone through dozens just these past weeks, each more frustrating than the last. T. insists that there are gems hidden amongst these dusty pages, that we only need uncover and polish them. Personally think he’s flogging a dead horse here, but I try to humour him as best I can, even if it is mind-numbingly dull work. Leaves my mind free for my own composition._

_Oh yes. I’ve confided in Montparnasse about its existence. The two of us made for the music room after T. had retired one afternoon, and I played for him the first act. Said it still needed polishing, but he disagreed and heaped praise upon it like coal upon a failing engine. One never tires of receiving praise, I’ve discovered. Was asked whether T. knew of this new work, I replied no, and bade him keep it a secret for a while longer. He agreed that such a masterpiece must be unveiled at the right time. And then he kissed me._

_I must confess I had wanted it. He is well-read and a terribly capable debater, and best of all he is not wholly repulsive. Would go as far to say he is attractive in a way few men are. He reminds me, in short, of you. Since knowing him, it is clear my initial comparison between the two of you extends far beyond mere looks. When I am with him, it feels almost as though you have come to me, and for a moment I am content._

_Don’t worry. No cause to be jealous. We have a mutual understanding, Montparnasse and I. What transpired between us that night had been nothing more than fleeting fancy. A momentary act of comfort. His affections are directed firmly elsewhere, as are mine. Only it has been so long since I could afford such intimacy that I quite allowed myself to be swept up in it, however briefly. You will forgive me, won’t you?_

_The bell has rung for supper, I must leave off here._

_Yours,_

_R._

 

_—_

 

_November 5, 1936_

_Enjolras,_

_I am writing to you in all haste. I am quitting Montfermeil and T.’s service and bound for Edinburgh as soon as I can manage._

_Will send word when I am settled. Do not come for me._

 

_Yours,_

_R._

 

_—_

 

_November 10, 1936_

_Enjolras,_

_Hope I have not alarmed you with the abruptness of my previous letter. Events transpired that have led me to resign from my position with T. post-haste. Have taken all that I can manage, including the last of the money not paid to my debtors. Bought a one-way ticket to Edinburgh and rented a room. It is serviceable at best, but beggars cannot be choosers, as much as it pains me to say those words again. The money will not last for long, but I hope to complete my work before it runs out._

_Before you ask yes, the news is true. Montparnasse has betrayed me, gone behind my back and told T. about my composition. My ‘_ Cloud Atlas Sextet _’. Turns out he had set the servants to going through my things while I was otherwise occupied. I have been duped, blinded by my infatuation to see him for who he truly is. Foolish to think that his affections were sincere._

_The old fool tried to take it from me, claims the nature of our relationship meant that he was within his legal rights to claim credit for my work. I cannot help but think that this was an elaborate set up, orchestrated between the two to rob me of my life’s work. There is too much coincidence for it to be otherwise._

_Begs the question whether Pontmercy knows they are crooks who make their fortune from the fruits of others’ labours. What little work I have seen T. compose these six months gone has been lacklustre and immemorable at best. Too eager to salvage old works than to create new ones. The pieces are all falling into place so clearly now, how did I not see it before. Suppose I was too caught up in my own self-importance to realise I have been playing the dunce all along._

_Stole T.’s own gun from the drawer in his bedside table and shot him clean through the stomach when he tried to take it from me. Unfortunately, the shot killed little more than his appetite, but I could not allow him to do it. My work is my own and no sterile old fuck can take it from me._

_T. has the dogs after me. He’s after blood. He has declaimed me as a degenerate who prostitutes himself and cavorts with sodomites and deviants. I do not refute these claims. They are the truth. But he has the world believing that my infatuation with him — him! — had driven me to jealousy and violence. Do not let them think I did it for love, Enjolras. I have had my infatuations, it is true, but we both know in our hearts who is the sole love in my short, bright life._

_Time is running out. I cannot sleep, cannot eat. What little time and energy that remains to me I pour into my music. Completion of my work must come before all else._

_Yours,_

_R._

 

_—_

 

_November 20, 1936_

_Enjolras,_

_I have taken to climbing the Scott Monument every morning to watch the sun rise and in that moment, it all becomes clear. It is amazing how a new perspective can change one’s outlook entirely. Don’t worry, all is well. All is so perfectly, damnably well._

_I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so. In moments like this, I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own, and I know that separation is an illusion. My life extends far beyond the limitations of me._

_Revelation sings in my veins and I return to my work with renewed vigour, as if my soul has been quenched after a long, bitter drought. It will not be long before my ‘_ Cloud Atlas Sextet _’ is complete._

 

_Yours faithfully,_

_R._

 

_—_

 

_November 22, 1936_

_My dearest Enjolras,_

_It’s done, finished in a frenzy that reminded me of our last night in Cambridge. Watched my last sunrise. Enjoyed a last cigarette. Don’t think the view could be anymore perfect in this very moment. I am wholly at peace now, and all is finally well._

_A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty. People pontificate suicide is a coward’s act. Couldn’t be further from the truth. Suicide takes tremendous courage._

_I believe there’s another world waiting for us, Enjolras. A better world. And I’ll be waiting for you there. I believe we do not stay dead long. Find me beneath the Corsican stars, where we first kissed._

 

_Yours eternally,_

  
  


  
  


“Grantaire.”

The pen stopped, poised a scant breath above the yellowed paper. The light from the morning sun caught between the stone parapets cast a ruddy glow about the familiar figure stepping through the archway as he raised his head. The familiar jacket in brilliant scarlet, the only luxury allowed in an otherwise austere dress, followed by a crown of gold so lovely, as though the angels had set their own halo about him.

The sight pulls a smile from his lips. He stood, the letter set aside, forgotten.

“Enjolras.”

_All is well._

 

 


End file.
